


lady macbeth

by cosmicpoet



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Hurt/Comfort, Implied OCD, M/M, Nightmares, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-20 00:58:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20666687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmicpoet/pseuds/cosmicpoet
Summary: Goro has to bite down on his mask to convince himself that he can keep progressing down the path that the universe has laid out for him. He knows that he can't be saved, but he can't exactly tell Akira to stop trying.





	lady macbeth

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the tags! Whilst nothing is too graphic, I just want you guys to be safe. I'm here if you ever need to chat :)

Sometimes, it’s easier for Goro to pretend that everything is a game. Simply put, games can be won, and he’s been so obsessively focused on his end goal that he can almost find it in himself, usually in the dusty haze of lying awake at 3am, to justify getting there. Of course, it’s only ever a matter of avoiding introspection - for someone who thinks so deeply, he finds that he isn’t strong enough to analyse himself in the same way that he tries to connect the dots of the world around him; already sure of the conclusion, he needs to push away the omnipresent thought: _I am a bad person._

That much he’s known his whole life. A burden on his mother, on the institutions he was passed around in, it was inevitable that he would drag himself, chains and all, down the only path that the universe has presented to him. There’s never been another option, and perhaps that explains far more than he’s comfortable with, about why he’s so jealous of Akira. His heart is so free. Sinking into his own resolution, he pushes aside the thoughts about himself, focusing intently - a little too intently, he measures, and calculates just how far to restrain himself - on his opponent in front of him.

It’s just a chess game. Winning this means nothing in the grand scheme of things, but the perpetual fear of failure can’t free him from the sacrifices he makes across the board. Which of the pieces best represents his heart, he thinks? The pawns, so easily manipulated, so unimportant and sacrificial? Or perhaps even the king, daring to place his own importance on the finality of it all, making weak attacks to protect himself, unable to die until the game is finished?

Akira’s queen takes his rook. What a strange pair they are.

“You’ve been practicing, Kurusu,” Goro says, his voice calm as he moves forward across the board, always thinking four moves ahead. He should have Akira in checkmate within the next five minutes.

“Not really. And you can call me Akira.”

“It’s quite a bold move, playing attack over defence.”

“Hm.”

It feels strange to be the puppet-master of all these pawns. Goro decides which one will have to die for him to advance, and steadies his hand in the swift movement.

“I wonder if that line of thought would align with the Phantom Thieves.”

“How so?”

“Of course, I’m only speculating. But existing in shadow doesn’t necessarily dictate passivity. You could even count the calling cards as their way of putting the opponent in check, backing them into a corner before they deal the final blow.”

“You don’t agree with them?”

“Haha,” Goro laughs - not his real laugh, that hasn’t seen the light of day in over a decade, but his pleasant mask fits him smoothly, almost a little too perfectly, “I wouldn’t be a very good detective if I was rooting for the people I’m aiming to catch.”

“You let your job dictate your emotions?”

_How much does he know?_

No, it’s a passing comment, and nothing more. Akira is one to watch out for; Goro is sure that his quiet resolve must have caused more than enough secrets to spill from other people, people who don’t have their lives on the line of keeping their mouths shut. It’s not the first time he’s thought this, but if they’d only met years earlier, perhaps Goro himself would find some comfort in the way he softly nods his head, like he’s truly _listening._

He already knows; there’s only one path for him to tread. No deviations.

He moves his own queen to take Akira’s knight.

“Check.”

“Nice deflection,” Akira says. The smirk on his face feels strangely absent, if only because Goro can’t understand why someone in a losing position would still be enjoying the game. He’s outmatched, though, because on the next turn, Goro hones in until he can take Akira’s king no matter where he tries to move it - checkmate in the simplest of forms.

“Ah, I win again,” he says, “thank you for playing with me.”

“How about a victory cup of coffee? On the house.”

“I really must be going.”

“Ten minutes.”

“All right. Ten minutes.”

Goro refuses to admit to himself that he just might like the fact that Akira remembers his coffee order without prompting. And maybe he just might like the way he pushes his glasses up his nose, trying to prevent them from steaming up, as he works with that fierce intensity that Goro has come to understand is integral to his resolve as a person. Perhaps, even, he just might like the slight smile of satisfaction on Akira’s face when he slides the cup across the counter.

Yes, in another life, he _just might like _Akira. If he could understand what it means to experience positive emotions at all. 

He watches the clock for the next ten minutes. As much as he’s enjoying the coffee, it’s all a little too… what’s the word he’s looking for? Domestic. And Akira is quiet as ever, just _looking _at him like he’s trying to figure something out in his head; fearful of letting his guard down, all Goro can do is double down on the mask he’s wearing. As he finishes his coffee with a pleasant smile, he reaches for his wallet - it all feels a little too much like charity.

But then Akira’s hands are pushing his own back down.

“It’s on the house. Winners don’t have to pay.”

Gulping down the anxiety that’s bubbling inside his chest, Goro complies, not wanting to give Akira any more fuel to understand him. “Is that Sakura’s rule, or yours?”

“He always gives free coffee to me and my friends.”

_Friends._

“Well, thank you. I really should go, however. I don’t want to miss the last train. You do live a little out of the way, and I wouldn’t like to have to walk all the way back at night.”

“Okay.”

Steadying his hand against his briefcase, he walks to the door, holding it open and then, like it’s an afterthought, turning around to face Akira. “Goodbye. I’ll come again, soon. I expect you to be better at chess, next time.”

“I’ll take that as a challenge.”

“Until then,” Goro says, walking out of Leblanc. Truthfully, he’s still thinking of how Akira’s hand felt against his own, even through his gloves he could feel the warmth of such a simple gesture, and he _hates _it. He hates it because he’s not sure where loving it would lead him, and it’s not like he can choose his own fate, any more. What’s worse is that it likely meant _nothing _to Akira, who has the freedom of friendship and love in his heart, and who probably does all of this and more to everyone who crosses his path, which makes it somehow less special. It’s easy to be jealous when he sees how people are attracted like magnets to Akira, how he’s been in Tokyo for comparatively so little time, and yet his connections spread across the city. No, not connections. _Friends._

Back in his apartment, he closes the door behind him slowly, methodically turning the key, holding his breath until he hears the click of relative safety. And then he looks, again, a few more times, just to check that it truly is locked, testing the handle to make sure, make sure, make sure, until he’s sure and his mind is quiet again, if only for a brief second.

The place can be considered clean, only by virtue of the fact that Goro doesn’t have any ornaments or decorations to make it feel like a home. It’s better than anything he’s ever had before, though, and he’ll hold onto the freedom of his little one bedroom apartment with all the fear of going to back to how he used to live. And it’s easier, he supposes, not to be burdened with having _things _and _possessions _and, god forbid, _gifts from friends; _that way, there’s less that he has to keep an eye on at all times, less that he has to protect the way he’s always had to.

He does, however, have a full length mirror in his bedroom, an impulse purchase that he’s sure he only made to punish himself. Without even turning the lights on, relying on the street-lamps that filter orange through his window, he stares at himself; at his body, and the way it moves like a marionette, all jagged and floundering and _wrong. _He reaches up to touch the mirror version of his face, so confused by his own appearance that he’s struggling to tell if his mask is slipping or tightening.

Who even is he, any more?

Contorting his face into a silent scream, he wonders if it’s more or less genuine to see himself this way. Even as he sheds his peacoat and gloves, loosening his tie, he can’t bring himself to play the part of a normal person - someone who has friends and doesn’t run away. Still, all he can do is try it out, messing up his hair and scratching at his face until he looks dishevelled, far different to the presentable, well put together part he plays on television and in public. He flits between facial expressions; exaggerated smiles, angry glares, desperate, heartbreaking, whispers that can’t blossom into screams for fear of waking his neighbours. 

Whoever Goro Akechi is, this man is simply wearing him like a cheap suit. He doesn’t know who he’s even supposed to be, let alone who he _is. _And his reflection taunts him with that, mocking him as an imitation of something even less real - is this what he’s become? So broken that he’s jealous of the man he sees in the mirror, because at least that version of himself is satisfied with being a lie?

He punches the glass and watches the whole thing shatter.

When his reflection, distorted and bloody, now, stares back at him, seething and shaking, he suddenly doesn’t want to understand who he is, after all. Even as blood drips down his fingertips, he can’t bring himself to even bandage the wound properly, he doesn’t _deserve _it. Instead, he just stretches out his fingers, creaking against the searing pain of his knuckles, and collapses onto his bed. Exhausted.

As usual, sleep doesn’t come. Once the clock at the side of his bed ticks far beyond midnight, and his eyes sting when he blinks, Goro realises that it’s going to be another one of _those nights. _Now, he’s faced with a choice: does he risk taking the sleeping medication in his bedside drawer, knowing that it’ll only enhance whatever dreams or nightmares he has, or does he lie awake in exhaustion until he’s thought himself into a corner and he needs to go and check that the door is locked again?

It’s self-destructive, and he’ll hate himself for it in the morning, but he chooses the medication.

_It happens again. He’s pulled up by marionette strings, aching to the marrow of his bones with the pain that comes alongside being hoisted up; as much as he screams, begs, he can’t be free of this cruel manipulation. Holding a gun in his left hand, he cries out, telling the puppeteer that he doesn’t want this, he can’t pull the trigger, god, it just breaks him inside to be manipulated so easily. It’s normal, when he’s like this, to hate himself, repeating over and over in his mind how weak he is, how he’s unable to resist the chains that bind him, the continuation of his trauma cracking and breaking within him, seeping shards of glass into his lungs, his heart, shattering all around him until he feels like he’s falling… he’s falling and falling and falling, with nothing to stop him._

It’s a fight to wake up, but when he does, it’s still dark. The clock tells him that it’s 5am, meaning that he’s had somewhere between three and four hours of sleep - not enough for someone his age, but it’ll have to do. It won’t do him any good to try and process the dream, and he hopes that if he distracts himself enough for the next half an hour, it’ll gradually fade into the realm of wherever dreams go when they’re not taunting him. 

He makes sure that the shower is boiling hot as he steps inside. For a moment, he’s so caught up on how terribly he slept that he forgets about the blood still on his hand, panicking when the water runs red beneath him. And then he laughs, bitterly, and it’s all so full of hate, because isn’t it something that sounds so much like _poetic justice? _Something, something, Lady Macbeth. He’s too weary to wax lyrical about his dire situation, and so he just slides down the wall of his shower cubicle until his knees are dragged up to his chest, aching to sob even though he’s empty inside, and no tears come.

Later on, he has to settle for the small mirror in his bathroom to apply concealer under the dark circles of his eyes, brushing out his hair and maintaining his presentable image. It hurts to pull his glove over his injured hand, but he’s never been particularly invested in self-preservation, and he pushes through regardless. His knuckles are stiff and creaky.

Perhaps he should have worn a scarf, today. It’s quite cold out, and he’s unsure if warming up would ease the perpetual shaking that he’s been finding himself unconsciously doing recently. 

After work, he could go straight back to his apartment, but he doesn’t want to confront the mess of shattered glass on his bedroom floor, nor does he want to sit and wallow in his own anxiety until he has another night like last night. And even though he didn’t set out with a plan of where to go, he supposes that it was always inevitable, as he stands outside Leblanc.

Whilst it’s still open, the rush (if having more than three customers at a time could be called that) of dinner has died down. Sojiro is washing dishes, whilst Akira - _ah, of course he’s here, why would Goro expect otherwise? and why is he happy about it? - _is midway through making a cup of coffee. Goro’s favourite coffee, to be exact.

“Good evening,” he says as he enters. In response, Akira slides the cup over to him with far more charm than he’d expect from any usual barista. “How did you know I’d be coming?”

“Kid’s got a sixth sense for it,” Sojiro says, “but I’ll be getting home, now. I’ll leave it to you to close up. Stay as long as you like.”

And then they’re alone again, just the two of them. Akira doesn’t even need to say anything, he’s already pulling out the chessboard and setting out the pieces, smiling at him like nothing is wrong.

“I hope you’re ready to be checkmated again,” Goro says.

“We’ll see.”

It feels so unfamiliar to pretend that he’s got all the self-confidence in the world; a balancing act between seeming proficient and not seeming too cocky. He wouldn’t want people to hate him, after all, even if he knows that the validation he gets from the public is all based on such a shaky lie. By god, he’d rather die than face his downfall. 

But for now, he can continue pretending, as he takes one of Akira’s pawns, the first sacrifice of the game.

“Something wrong with your hand?” Akira asks.

“No, why?”

“You just seem a bit stiff. Maybe you’re scared of how _ridiculously good _at chess I am.”

“Haha… no chance, Kurusu.”

“Akira.”

“Right. Akira.”

“Can I see?”

“See what?”

“Your hand,” Akira says.

Almost obnoxiously, Goro holds out his hand, knowing full well that Akira wants him to actually take his glove off. But that would mean he has to explain a lot of things, and by _explain, _it would mean that he has to lie. He’s used to that, at least, but he doesn’t necessarily like doing it - he’s just too far gone to stop, now.

“Take your glove off.”

“Really, I’m fine.”

“The more you say that, the more I don’t believe you.”

“Do I seem that much of a liar?”

“Hiding something doesn’t mean you’re lying.”

Akira moves his bishop across the board. For the first time, Goro is unsure what move he’s trying to make, so he plays it safe and makes a move to double down on the protection of his king. Whilst he’s distracted, Akira takes the moment to reach out and hold Goro’s hand - the way he flinches all but directly confirms to the other man that there is, in fact, something wrong.

“I won’t ask questions. I just want to see.”

Now, more than ever, Goro is the one who feels like he’s about to be checkmated. But it’s important to build up trust with Akira, to get closer to him in order to keep an eye on him, and he supposes that this is one of the sacrifices he’ll have to make on his painful path to his final goal. At least, that’s what he tells himself. 

And so, slowly, cautiously, he pulls off his glove; the only thing he can do now is hope that it doesn’t look too bad.

Ah, _shit._ It looks bad.

“Goro, what happened?”

“I thought you weren’t asking questions.”

“Right. We need to get that cleaned up, though.”

“Oh, it’s nothing. Really, it doesn’t even hurt at all!”

“Did you clean it?”

“The blood washed off in the shower.”

“So that’s a no, then. C’mon, upstairs.”

_Upstairs? _He knows that that’s where Akira lives, which means that he must be taking him to his bedroom. The sickening feeling of domesticity creeps back into him, like blood from a reopened wound coagulating against cold, cold skin. Still, he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to _stop this, _especially when Akira is holding his uninjured hand and guiding him up the steps, sitting him down on the bed.

Oh, god, the shame. Does he get off on watching Goro crumble? Does he _like _seeing him weak? Maybe he knows more than he’s letting on, after all, and this is all just a plan to get him to open up, to break through the carefully crafted walls around his persona, to destroy him before he gets the chance to destroy himself.

Because the alternative - that Akira genuinely cares, and _wants _to take care of him - is far more disgusting.

Akira pulls out a first-aid kit from next to his desk, kneeling down in front of Goro and taking his hand in his own. Carefully, like he’s actively trying to be gentle, he cleans the wound, and even though it stings, Goro won’t let himself show that he’s in pain.

No, he has to get back on top.

“That’s a pretty extensive first-aid kit,” he says, “do you get in a lot of fights?”

And, unspoken - _tell me you’re a Phantom Thief. I dare you._

“No,” Akira replies, voice as calm as ever, “probation, remember?”

“I suppose it would be reckless, even for you, to sabotage that.”

“Hm.”

He’s quiet whilst he works, and Goro needs to calculate whether it would be more suspicious to talk, or to mimic the silence. But silence reminds him too much of anger, and people hating him, and he desperately needs to not feel like that, right now. What kind of sacrifice is this, then? To disregard (only temporarily) his meticulous long-term plans, and to simply allow himself to be present in the moment, feeling Akira’s warm hands against his, bandaging up not even the tip of the iceberg of all the hurt inside him?

“Thank you,” he says.

“It’s nothing.”

“Maybe to you.”

“Will you tell me what happened?”

“No.”

“That’s direct. But okay. I won’t push it.”

“Akira… how does it feel to have the reputation you have?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m sorry if it’s forward to ask. I don’t expect an answer, but I am curious. You came here with probation hanging over your head, and it’s not a leap in logic to assume that people judge you before they even know you. How do you deal with that?”

“I prove them wrong.”

“And what if they don’t give you the chance to do that?”

“Then they don’t matter, I suppose.”

“You’re happy like that? Knowing that people will have a false impression of you, and they’ll use that to judge you? Hate you, even?”

“Well… no. I _like _being liked. But I’m not going to negate the relationships I have with people who do like me, just for the approval of people I ultimately don’t care about.”

“You’re so free.”

“Are you not?”

“Oh, I wasn’t relating anything to my own situation. I just thought that I owe it to you to hear your side of the story, since you’re helping me out, too.”

“Thank you. I suppose being famous, people will judge the fake you instead of the real one.”

“What?”

“You know, TV personalities and stuff. I hear that celebrities only show their best side.”

“Well, that is true. But I hardly think I class as a proper celebrity -

_(stop asking stop asking stop asking stop asking)_

\- and I like to hope that I’m genuine enough for the public to trust me to solve the cases I’m assigned to.”

“I suppose being a celebrity detective is different to just being a celebrity.”

“You’re right about that,” Goro says.

Akira finishes bandaging up his hand, and it’s only when he lets go that Goro realises how cold it is in this attic room. Now that he has a proper chance to look around, he sees that it’s much more homely than his own apartment. It’s not even that Akira has many things - hell, he hasn’t even unpacked a large cardboard box that Goro assumes came with him from his hometown - it’s just that what he _does _have evidently has meaning. A touristy t-shirt hanging up, a gift bowl from some ramen shop. Goro wants to call them useless, tacky items, but he can’t bring himself to confront the jealousy that seeps like poison deep within his gut, and his mask won’t allow him to be mean to someone who just helped him out, no matter how much he aches to bite out some sarcastic comment.

He rips the skin off the inside of his lip with his teeth.

“Thanks, again,” he says, standing up. And then, hastily, “I should go.”

“You can stay, if you like. It’s getting late.”

“Thank you for the offer, but I wouldn’t want to intrude. You still have to clean up the café downstairs, right?”

“You could help me out.”

He’s persistent, and Goro wants to rip off the bandages and grab him by the collar, tell him to _shut up _because he’s not worth the effort or the chase. Akira’s friendliness and reliability might work on others, but it’s just a sickening reminder for Goro of a world that he’s never belonged in. Cleaning up his hand and making him coffee won’t fix the years of trauma that have effectively emptied him out and made him poisonous to be around.

So he has to go. He can’t infect Akira with his chains. He doesn’t deserve that.

“I think I’ll have to pass, I’m sorry. I’ll come again, soon, though. We still need to finish that chess match.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

“I’m sure you will.” _And you shouldn’t._

“Can I at least walk you to the station?” Akira says.

“I don’t think it’s going to be dangerous.”

“It’s a short walk.”

“All the more reason not to worry, then.”

“What if I’m not worried?”

“Then why?”

“Maybe I just like spending time with you,” Akira shrugs, like it’s so _casual _and not the first time that Goro has ever heard anyone say that to him. 

If he were more naïve, he might even have blushed. But the world has ripped that out of his heart and replaced it with self-hate and the urge to run, so he simply flashes a false smile Akira’s way, and says, a little lightly, but with resounding resolve, “Goodbye.”

In bed, that night, he realises that Akira has touched his hand twice in the past two days. Curious, a little sad, but mostly empty, he tries to recreate the feeling, holding his own hand and closing his eyes, pretending against the laughable loneliness of midnight that he could somehow explain everything to Akira, and then he could be saved.

Pathetic. He’s just clinging onto the intimacy of feeling alone. How cruel of Akira to try and be nice to him, to try and show him love. It’s far too late for that.

How horribly, horribly cruel.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to try and understand Goro better, and this is the product of that. I swear, the more I write, the more I'll understand, so please bear with me as I figure out how to characterise these characters well!


End file.
